We all moved our stretching to the edges of the mat, so that Jake and Nicky had the center of the mat. Nathaniel and I moved to Magda and Sin, and he happily helped us make sure we were all sitting together. Some of the other people in the room had just stopped stretching to watch our two instructors. Jake smiled out at everyone.

   “We’re going to spar today.”

   “I hate sparring,” Nathaniel whispered.

   I glanced at his suddenly unhappy face. His lack of aggression in practice meant that he was really bad at sparring.

   “I love sparring,” Sin said.

   There were a few others who made noises against it like Nathaniel, but not many. Sparring was a safe-ish way to learn how to fight in the real world, or to find what you needed to work on the most. Almost everyone in the room made their living from some form of violence, which meant we all needed to be better at it, or at least better than whoever was trying to hurt us. Even Sin used aggression to help him focus and be better on the football field; only Nathaniel had a job that fight practice probably wouldn’t help him be better at. If he had needed to be in better shape for taking his clothes off onstage, then MMA would have been a great workout for him, but Nathaniel was in fabulous shape already.

   Magda wasn’t one of the people who groaned. She was like me; we came to the gym to work out, not whine. Besides, we were women, and there’s only one way to be successful in martial arts, or combatives, and that’s to be as tough as the men, or tougher. Is it fair? No. Is it still true? Yep.

   “You are improving on sparring, but your groundwork needs more attention,” Magda said.

   “And if someone throws me, then I’ll get to work on my grappling and groundwork,” Sin said; he wanted to get better at anything he tried to do physically.

   Nathaniel sighed, heavily. This was the first physical thing where he whined and complained. He really did hate it, but my life was too dangerous to have someone in it who couldn’t do the minimum in self-defense.

   Jake motioned Scaramouche to come join them in the center of the mat. Scaramouche stood up, his long black hair in a tight bun at the nape of his neck. He always looked tall, and in regular clothes he looked slender, almost delicate, and always elegant like he was some maharaja’s son gone off to the West to dress in designer clothes and forget everything he owed his family in India. Shirtless, wearing nothing except workout shorts with all that medium-brown skin showing, he looked lean, muscled, and much more warrior than spoiled prince. He walked onto the practice mat like he had springs in his feet and legs. He still looked delicate compared to Nicky, but he also looked fast, strong, and was giving off his own version of come and get some energy. When he bowed to Jake, muscles played in his back and across his shoulders. He didn’t have Nicky’s bulk, but it would be a mistake to think he was weak.

   Jake bowed back as a sign of respect, but he was careful to keep his gaze on the other man. I knew Scaramouche had done the same thing when he bowed without having seen his face. It didn’t take long for you to learn that taking your eyes off any potential opponent on the practice mat, at the dojo, was a mistake.

   Nicky and Scaramouche put on pads, shin guards, and fight gloves. The gloves were padded on the front of the hand, but with bare fingers so the men could grab and hold on, but not tear their hands up as badly as they would without protection. They bowed to each other and this time I could watch them watching each other.

   I felt Nathaniel tense beside me. He leaned in just enough for his bare shoulder to touch my arm. Now that he wasn’t having to worry about sparring himself, he was worried about Nicky. I was a little surprised that Jake had let his teaching assistant spar with anyone rather than just instruct. That must have meant something was up. Maybe there’d been more than one reason for Jake to tag Nicky to help him today.

   I looked around and realized that there were more Harlequin here than normal, and most of them were ones like Scaramouche and Pierette, who had made it known that they weren’t entirely content here in St. Louis. Hortensio, the animal half to his vampire master, Magnifico, was sitting near Pierette, much as we’d moved closer to Magda and Sin. Some of the Harlequin had been given their names by their dead queen, but others had chosen their names with permission of their queen. Magnifico was one of those, so I guess if that’s the name you choose, your ego is going to be large enough that you are going to be a problem. Hortensio reflected his master’s attitudes in almost every way, which made him seriously irritating without his master’s suave and debonair manners to offset it. Funny how most of the Harlequin who had kept the names of their masked alter egos, the names they killed under, were all pains in our asses.

   Nicky and Scaramouche both dropped into a fighting stance, but it wasn’t the same one. I knew Nicky didn’t always telegraph his fighting style like that, but the two men had fought before and had watched each other spar with other guards. They had no deep, dark fighting secrets from each other. It was a plus to know your fellow soldiers’ strengths and weaknesses, but it was anything but if you actually had to fight against them and not with them. Nicky knew that, so he wasn’t trying to be coy.

   Nicky feinted a kick at Scaramouche’s leg, and the wererat returned the favor, but neither of them put much power behind it. The wererat feinted a punch at Nicky’s face. He bobbed to the side, letting it go past, and then Scaramouche moved in a blur of speed with his other hand. Nicky’s arm was just in front of his face, blocking the other man’s fist. I hadn’t even seen him move to block; it was like magic. Scaramouche tried to follow with a punch to Nicky’s ribs, but the werelion blocked with his elbow and moved just enough, so that missed, too.

   Scaramouche gave himself some distance from the other man, hands still raised up protecting his face, elbows tight in over his ribs. “You should not be that much faster than I am, lion.”

   “I’m Rex of our pride, rat.”

   “It doesn’t matter. You are not Harlequin. You should not be faster than me.”

   Nicky faced him with his own arms up, elbows tucked tight against the side of his body; he was on the balls of his feet, almost bouncing in place. Someone his size shouldn’t have bounced like that either; he’d always been more agile than he looked, but I agreed with Scaramouche on the new speed. I’d never seen Nicky move like that.

   “Don’t you mean that you shouldn’t be this slow?” Nicky said; his voice already held an edge of growling to it.

   “Yes, that is exactly what I mean, lion. Only the Harlequin are so swift that another wereanimal cannot see them move.” Scaramouche kicked at him, but Nicky moved out of the way of it, no need to block. Scaramouche moved in suddenly with a rain of blows and kicks that were just a blur of motion. I couldn’t follow it all, but it was as if Nicky’s hands, arms, and legs were just there, where they needed to be. Scaramouche was a dark blur, but Nicky was so fast my eyes couldn’t even see the blur of his motion. The last time I’d seen anyone that fast, it had been some of the Harlequin before we killed their dark queen. All but one of those particular Harlequin had died rather horrible deaths, so the preternatural wonder speed hadn’t helped them all that much, but I’d never seen one of our people be this fast.